


Brother in Arms

by purrfectj



Series: That Looks on Tempests and is Never Shaken [6]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 03:24:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4903699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purrfectj/pseuds/purrfectj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Yes. That's me.” She noted, out of the corner of her eye, how pity moved across his face, then settled into a grim line as he stared down at the shield. Her respect for him slid up a notch that he didn’t offer useless platitudes or empty words of comfort. - Alistair and Aalish on the eve of the Battle of Ostagar</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brother in Arms

Alistair approached her cautiously, this girl who was now his fellow Grey Warden. He thought her beautiful, lithe and agile and deadly, her eyes like sapphires, her face sharp save a generous mouth. She’d never faltered while they’d explored the Korcari Wilds for darkspawn, she’d passed the Joining when neither of the two other fellow recruits had, yet tonight on the eve of a great battle, she sat alone by the fire, something wooden and hide and metal that glinted dully in the firelight lying across her lap while she leaned against the flank of her mabari. She was officially his sister in arms. 

His feelings were anything but brotherly. 

She knew he was there. He had been hovering for the past few moments, his handsome face unsure and wary. She had no patience for handsome men, even ones she could call…but no, he wasn’t her brother, _Fergus_ was her brother, she was Lady Aalish Elissa Cousland of Highever, daughter to Bryce and Eleanor, aunt to… 

Her fingers continued to stroke the shield in her lap like she used to stroke Oren’s hair. 

He sank down next to her without asking. Speaking, especially to a beautiful woman, was not one of his skills, but he was sure she needed to talk. The mabari, Sarim, chuffed at him good-naturedly when Alistair patted him awkwardly on his side. “Good dog.” 

The crackling of the fire filled the space between them. When he almost couldn't bear the silence, there was a dull, scraping sound as she slid whatever it was in her lap his way. He started to pick it up and realized it was bigger than he'd first thought, and heavier. It was a kite shield, well-made, and when he bent closer, he realized it bore heraldry: a laurel wreath in shining white. “Cousland,” he murmured and felt rather than saw her jerk, her long, slender, elegant fingers fluttering like birds in her lap. He'd heard the whispers around camp: Arl Rendon Howe had murdered the entire Cousland family. Except… 

“You’re the daughter of a Teyrn!” 

“Yes. That's me.” She noted, out of the corner of her eye, how pity moved across his face, then settled into a grim line as he stared down at the shield. Her respect for him slid up a notch that he didn’t offer useless platitudes or empty words of comfort. 

“Or was, I guess. Now I'm just Aalish, Grey Warden.” She snorted, a very ladylike snort. “I guess Howe was right, still playing at being a man.” 

“You don't look anything like a man,” he said immediately, and then wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole when she turned surprised, wary blue eyes on him. Ah, well, in for a copper, in for a sovereign. “I'm sorry, but you don't. Too pretty.” 

No one who looked like Alistair and wasn't a relative had ever called Aalish pretty with any sincerity. Handsome, yes, as if discussing a horse for breeding. A bitch, often, as if she were at fault when they couldn’t handle the truth. Skilled with a blade and a bow, grudgingly, as if it were impossible for a woman, a lady, to also be a skilled marksman. Yet here sat Alistair, big, broad-shouldered, handsome Alistair of the changeable hazel eyes, wavy brown gold hair, and square-jawed face and she saw he meant it: he thought she was pretty. She of the average breasts, boy hips, coltish legs, sharp cheekbones, waspish temper, and Maker-damned red hair. 

She rose to her feet so abruptly that Sarim barked sharply, scrambling to get his feet under him. When Alistair made to rise, as well, she shook her head at him. “No! No, stay...and keep the shield. I can't use it.” 

“But...it's your family's.” He'd never had a family, not a real one, but he thought if he had and he'd lost them, he’d want to keep anything that would remind him of them. He thought, briefly, of his mother’s amulet and felt a prick of shame. 

Something flickered in those sapphire eyes, an aching chasm, and she whispered, “I guess that’s you, now.” Her hand reached out as if to touch his hair and then drew back, fisted at her side. “Alistair.” His name was a whisper on her lips before she turned and strode away, her war dog at her heels. 

The next morning as they were preparing to head into the briefing with Duncan, she silently handed him a well-balanced, unadorned longsword. At his questioning glance, the corner of her generous mouth quirked up at the corner. “It’s better than the ratty one you’ve got.” 

He was already half in love with her when they stumbled onto the ogre guarding the signal fire at the top of the tower. 


End file.
